Sociopathy
by Pinguin1993
Summary: Moriarty comes back with a message, and soon he strikes again. His first victim: ...Anderson? Just what is going on? T for a reason. Be warned.
1. Message

_I can destroy them,  
><em>the Voice says.

_It would be so very easy, fragile as humans tend to be. One word from my lips and they are nothing in the dust at my feet. Nothing but whimpers and splinters and blood,  
><em>the Voice says.

_Beautiful. An experiment in the name of beauty. I wish you could be there._

He doesn't want to hear this.

_This is my personal little gift for you,  
><em>the Voice whispers.

_I will take them from you, your lackeys, your audience, your toys. I will take them away, one after the other. Until you can't help but despise and disdain them. Until you truly believe you don't care what happens to them anymore. And then, at your lowest point, I will show you just how very wrong you are._

The laugh is bleak, empty, gives him goose bumps.

_And finally, I will break_ _**you.**_


	2. 1: Irrational

**A/N:** _Hello, everyone! Welcome on board. What you see in front of you is the translation of my still ongoing German fic "Soziopathie". I was planning to translate it once it's finished, but there have been requests, so bear with me please. There will always be one short message, memory, quote or background information posted, followed by a chapter. T-rating is for mentions of trauma, torture, blood, violence, swearing and the like in later chapters (first serious issue in chapter seven). You have been warned.  
><em>

**Quote: **_There are three sides to everything. One you see; one I see; and one we both don't see. (Chinese proverb)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One_Irrational<strong>

* * *

><p>The audio-CD is in the mail, and at the time that Sherlock puts it into John's old CD-Player <em>(because there is not a chance this thing will come even close to his laptop) <em>the envelope is already on its way to an analysis in the Yard labs. The writing- elegant, almost effeminate, expensive ballpoint pen- and the high quality of the letter- white, thick- equal the letter in which the pink cell phone found its way to him. _(And has that really been only a few months ago? It feels like an other lifetime.)_

Sherlock doesn't have a doubt that the CD has already made a detour over Mycroft _(everything does these days). _It is also quite clear that he will not like what he is about to hear. Despite the dropping temperatures outside, more and more "pedestrians" stroll up and down Baker Street. And even John has already commented that they look suspiciously like they wear bullet-proof gear and automatic guns under their long, dark trenchcoats.

_I will have to talk to Mycroft about discretion, _Sherlock thinks sourly _(because of course they are his brother's men, Moriarty would never be this obvious) _and presses play.

Fifteen minutes later he played the message over six times. A notepad sits on the floor next to him, filled to the last page with ideas and observations _(and bloodlust, line after line, gruesome detail after gruesome detail of what he would like to do with this man). _The handwriting is unreadable for anyone but Mycroft and himself _(and he is secretly proud of his stenography). _Still he has little to actually work with here. There is nothing, the message is so short, and he can't help it- every time he hears Moriarty's voice, this sing-song and the soft Irish accent, he has to fight the irrational urge to smash the CD-Player against the next wall.

John is out. Sherlock is _almost _sure that he is at Bart's for his shift _(one of his experiments had entered a c__ritical phase and required his attention), _but he is not entirely convinced, and his inattentiveness nags on him. Especially now he needs to know that John is safe. This whole idea to just go back to the lives they had before the "pool incident" has been sheer idiocy from the beginning. They should have gone into hiding, left the country, investigate in secrecy. _(And there it was again, the small word _they _that has slowly but steadily replaced the former_ he, _and when had that been?) _Instead he had listened to John, had been lulled into a false sense of security when there was no trace of Moriarty or his people even after days and weeks and months.

At the same time Sherlock is strangely relieved that John isn't here to hear this. Of course he has to know at some point, since his own life is obviously in danger _(and does that surprise anyone), _but not like this, not this harsh and sudden, not when he is tired _(exhausted) _and unprepared _(but __how to you prepare for this?). _Sherlock will tell him, yes, after a warm meal and a night full of sleep and a long, detailed talk to Mycroft. And Lestrade. Then he will tell John. Now? No.

Both their security statuses have been upgraded after the fateful evening in a local swimming pool three months ago. But Sherlock hasn't forgotten just how easily Moriarty snatched John away from the streets _(stole him, he thinks with a hint of fury, and no one steals from him and gets away with it, _no one). A higher number of guards doesn't change the fact that the system has failed them. If anything, it was a new incentive: Can you trick ten men, fifteen, twenty, the way you can trick two? _(Sherlock can.) _Can you trick the cameras, disable the alarm, remain hidden? _(Sherlock has made that a sport.) _No. These men are of little help, and Mycroft knows it just as well as Sherlock does.

They survived that night- all three of them, it seems now. Oh yes, they survived. Broken and battered and burnt and half drowned, after John propelled them both into the pool. John, who took the full force of the explosion and saved Sherlock from almost certain death. John, who stopped breathing more than once that night and whose bloodied face follows Sherlock into his _(sudden, irrational) _nightmares.

**I will burn the heart out of you.**

A muscle in his jaw twitches; it is the only observable sign of his agitation, the only proof for his racing thoughts. He stays on the floor unmoving, stares at the ceiling of his room with blank eyes and tunes out the world around him for a while. Tries meditation _(not that he could ever really _empty _his mind, there is always a voice, a thought, a noise he can't_ _shut up, only John can sometimes) _and obviously that doesn't help him much. Finally he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, rolls over and gets up. As much as he hates to admit it, his heart isn't in it right now _(and what a pun, what irony is this). _His priorities are elsewhere _(have been for exactly six months, eleven days and three hours, but rarely as clearly as now). _He can't even concentrate on his own notes. His blackberry lies forgotten on the bed, but now he fetches it and writes a short text.

**Are you OK? When can I expect you home? -SH**

He hits send and regrets it instantly- was that too obvious, too unnatural for him? _(John shouldn't worry. No, that's not right- he does want John to worry, but only about Sherlock, no one else, not ever, and isn't _that _rational and based on logic, w__hat the hell is wrong with him?) _Irritated with himself he opens the text window again. He is about to write a second message- harsher, more like himself, whatever that means- when the device vibrates in his hands. John has been faster. The thought makes him smile _(irrational, Sherlock, irrational- oh to hell with this)._

**all good here. dont set fire to anyth till im home. if ure tired dont wait up. back at 9.**

The part of Sherlock's brain that is not currently occupied with a profound analysis of the true nature of democracy _(and the use of it, if people like Mycroft can manipulate it effortlessly) _is already working on the details revealed in this text. John is at the hospital, working. John has little time and is stressed _(as seen in his horrible grammar), _but has taken the time to reply instantly _(and why is he smiling again?). _John didn't ask why Sherlock is asking, because he has seen that something is wrong, but he trusts Sherlock to tell him in time. It gives his joking reminder- **don't set fire to anything- **another meaning. Sherlock doesn't like people telling him to be careful. He hates the waste of time and space these words represent. _(Why shouldn't he be careful, when exactly is he supposed to be careful, he isn't a child anymore, do they _want _h__im to be paranoid?) _John asks him anyway, but subtly, hidden in quiet mockery _(and Sherlock can almost see the small smile in the corners of John's mouth, it is his, his alone). _He can not set things on fire for a while. He can work with this.

Equally amused and frustrated about his inappropriate reaction, Sherlock stretches his long fingers over the keys, before he slowly and thoughtfully types out his reply.

**Of course not. Last time was an accident. I'm here when you come home. -SH**

John's reply comes a good thirty minutes later, when dusk already paints the evening sky dark with veils of blue mist _(the days are getting shorter, he has to remember fixing the heating). _Sherlock is once again working on one of his experiments. This one involves Mrs. Hudson's freezer, and he is tiptoeing through her flat to get it before she finds it. His plans are momentarily forgotten, however, as he hastily fumbles the vibrating blackberry out of his breast pocket. He awaits a report from Mycroft concerning the mysterious envelope _(he _demands _a report, to be precise)_ and is almost disappointed when he reads the name on the display. _(Almost. Because how could he ever be disappointed if it's John?)_

Given the momentary situation, this last thought has a worrying quality to it. He shakes his head to clear it from the intrusion.

**I know. I'll bring milk. ;-)**

A smiley. _Why a smiley? _And why, for the love of God, does this allusion to their concerning lack of milk make him smile? _(It's not like they never have any milk. John likes it in his tea, and Sherlock in his cereals. And he uses it for his experiments sometimes, because milk has many useful qualities, and he explores them with fascination. But aside from that- oh. Well. So they never have any milk, now what.)_

Still confused he gathers the container with mould cultures from the chest freezer and returns to the flat on the second floor. _(It's not the mould he's hiding from their landlady. It's the object on which the mold is growing.) _Not for the first time that day he tries to contact Lestrade, instead reaching the mailbox. How untypical, and how very frustrating. He leaves the seventh text this evening _(and his impatience is showing in his words, Lestrade'd better answer soon) _and then aggressively indulges himself in his studies of the relation between mould growth and sudden cold in reference to a cold case the inspector left him days ago._  
><em>

The next time he looks up from his microscope _(property of St. Bart's, he needs to get rid of the engraving one of these days), _he hears John's footsteps in the hallway. A quick glance to the clock confirms the late hour _(and why is John late?). _The smell of chinese takeout invades the room, when John enters the flat. Moments later he's in the kitchen doorway, waving two paper boxes and smiling his _(Sherlock's) _soft smile. "Hey, Mr. Detective. Hungry?

Not really, but then the question was rather rhetorical. _(John has made it quite clear that Sherlock can choose freely between two options: Either he eats, or John force-feeds him.) _With a playfully exasperated sigh he gets up from the kitchen chair and flops down on the sofa in the sitting room. John is seemingly unimptessed. He turns on the TV, volume settings low, and the soft muttering and flickering lights form the background of a fastly heating debate over possible endings of an episode of **Fringe. **_(John says parallel universes are nonsense. Sherlock bites back a comment on that.) _It is late when they finally leave the living area; the night outside is black and starless. John draws the curtains, before he pads up the stairs and into his room. He has yet to ask what exactly happened today. He trusts Sherlock to tell him the important facts on his own _(preferably before the bad stuff happens). _And of course Sherlock will do that. Tomorrow. All according to plan, all in its own time, first thing tomorrow morning...

The detective leaves for his own room and flops down on his bed still fully clothed. He plans to finish his experiment as soon as John is asleep _(mould can be so ungrateful at times). _Instead his eyes flutter and then close as he slowly drifts off into deeper sleep, lulled in by creaking floorboards above his head and the soft drumming of rain against his window.

Silence reigns in 221b.

Neither Mycroft nor Lestrade have replied to his messages today. Neither of the two will sleep well tonight.


	3. Texts

_**To: **__Gregory Lestrade (16:33)  
>I am sure the envelope is already in analysis. Anything yet? Fingerprints? Origin of the stamp? Sender? Post office? Why am I doing your job, Lestrade? -SH<br>_

_**To: **__Gregory Lestrade (16:45)  
>Lestrade, I'm waiting. Ballpoint pen &amp; envelope = hurry up. Don't make me spell the name for you. -SH<em>

_**To: **__Gregory Lestrade (16:46)  
>M-O-R-I-A-R-T-Y. -SH<em>

_**To: **__Gregory Lestrade (16:59)  
>Really? Half an hour of nothing? I hope there is a good explanation for this. -SH<em>

_**To: **__John (16:59)  
>Are you OK? When can I expect you home? -SH<br>_

_**To: **__SECRET (17:00)  
>My, Lestrade is being a bore. Tell me you have any updates. I know you know more, don't make me wait just because of your ego. -SH<em>

**From: **John (17:02)  
>all good here. dont set fire to anyth till im home. if ure tired dont wait up. back at 9.<p>

_**To: **__John (17:04)  
>Of course not. Last time was an accident. I'm here when you come home. -SH<em>

_**To: **__Gregory Lestrade (17:08)  
>Is Anderson on forensics today? It's the only explanation for this ridiculous wait. You should fire him, you know. Updates eagerly awaited, but I really shouldn't have to tell you this. -SH<em>

_**To: **__SECRET (17:12)  
>I have a right to know, and you know it. Send a mail. More room for details. And hurry up, I'm bored. Really, the efficiency of politicians these days is not up to scratch. -SH<em>

**From:** John (17:39)  
>I know. I'll bring milk. ;-)<p>

_**To: **__Gregory Lestrade (17:56)  
>I may have fallen asleep, but that's no excuse for you. So you can't even analyze an envelope these days? I don't know why I still put up with you. Is this your revenge for this victim I scared in the last case? Because that would simply be childish. Even for your standards. -SH<em>

_**To: **__SECRET (19:02)  
>Mycroft, je ne le trouve pas amusant. Info. Mail. I'm waiting. And no, the PM is no excuse. -SH<em>

_**To: **__Gregory Lestrade (19:03)  
>Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty. MORIARTY. God, you are useless. Send me back the envelope. Need it for my own tests. -SH<em>

_**To: **__Gregory Lestrade (21:27)  
>If you still want the solution to the Gondert-case I'd better get a text soon. -SH<em>

_**To: **__Gregory Lestrade; SECRET (23:28)  
>All right. I understand. Don't count on us in the future. I'll go to bet. MORIARTY. This is just childish. You are grown men. You should be ashamed of yourselves. -SH<em>


	4. 2: Miscalculation

_Hey everyone. Thank you so much for sticking with me. Here is chapter two. Huge thanks to my reviewers and especially to Jodi2011 for pointing out my embarrassing mistake in Chapter one. Obviously it's not dawn, it's dusk. Hello, traps of the English language, meet my brain. If you find any typos or grammar mistakes or whatever in this, please tell me.  
>Also, here's something else. Seeing as I am stuck in Germany, and BBC is obviously not German, can any of you help me? I want to watch the new season asap. I have no idea how long it will take the fans to upload the episodes online so that I can watch it (ignore how illegal all that is, thanks). But any day of delay would be a day too long I guess. So does any of you want to open their living rooms for me? I'd find a way to come to England, by God I would. It's not that far after all. Or do you have suggestions, or know how to watch BBC in Germany or whateverireallydontcare? PLEASE. I'M DYING OVER HERE AND IT HURTS.<br>_

_**Quote: **__John Watson has rapidly become the unknown, completely unexpected variable _who never varies_ in the universe known as Holmes. _(Skyfullofstars: There But For The Grace Of John Watson)  
><strong>Song:<strong> _Verraten (Betrayed) By Kettcar_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two_Misinformed<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Even after all that had already happened, deep inside he had still believed that there was time.<em>

Sherlock wakes with the first sunbeams stroking his face through the bedroom window. More out of habit than anything else he keeps his eyes closed and continues his deep breathing while he analyzes his surroundings _(he has made too many bad experiences in his eventful life). _He is lying on something soft: Sofa or bed. The air smells of mint _(shampoo) _and dust _(dust)_: His room, so his bed. Bright light burns right through his closed eyelids: It is early morning _(the sunlight isn't warm yet) _and he forgot to draw the curtains the night before. Conclusion: He's at home. He is safe.

For now silence reigns in his head; his mind is still fogged with sleep. He relishes the quiet for a full six seconds, the absolute calm before the storm that is his omniscient brain. Then it gets boring. He reaches blindly for the blackberry on his nightstand and cracks one eye open just enough to glance at the display. **0 new messages, 0 new e-mails. **Irritated, he opens the other eye as well. **0 missed calls. **Nothing. The phone shows full reception, too. If anyone had sent him anything last night, it'd be here right now.

Neither Mycroft nor Lestrade have answered him.

Fine. If they want to behave like little children, this is a game he knows just fine.

He types out a quick text to John, while his thoughts circle back to yesterday's message. It is obviously Moriarty's doing, as much as Sherlock would love to believe otherwise. This not only means that one of the most dangerous men of the century is back in action; it also shows said man to be most begrudging. And still after Sherlock. After Sherlock... After _Sherlock_?

**Your lackeys, your audience, your toys.**

This means something. Has to mean something, but he can't quite grasp it yet. He presses his balled fists against his temples and tries to rub some sense into his brain. It is no use, sleep is still too close and his thoughts are sluggish. He is interrupted when the phone in his hand chimes softly. At the same time, the headboards above him creak in protest at movement from John. He answered then.

**idiot dyou know what time it is**

Now this is little help. Lost in thought, Sherlock taps the phone against his chin and throws a quick glance at the clock radio next to the bed. **06:22. **It seems to be an acceptable time for getting up, even for a late riser like John. _(Sherlock never really understood how an ex-soldier and doctor can sleep like this. Shouldn't the early rise be a part of his being by now?) _Maybe it's Sunday. John makes some kind of difference between Sundays and the other days of the week, though Sherlock can't fathom why. _(Society, Bible, day of rest, sigh...) _He makes a frustrated sound and punches the keys with more force than absolutely neccessary.

**06:22 a.m. Meet me in the living room. I need your phone.**

He sends the message and slowly proceeds to roll onto his stomach, face pressed into the pillow. _(Or was John's question a rhetorical one? Well, he'll find out soon enough.) _With as little effort as possible he uses the slight bank of the mattress _(storage of files below the bed inadequate, find other solution) _and slumps down to the floor, where he stays for a moment to take a deep breath before he shuffles into the living area. He feels strange, unwell somehow, but then again this is hardly surprising. _(He never sleeps during a case. He hates what it does to his brain, and it lowers his emotional defenses, and it's a waste of time in general.) _He does sure hope for a tea John-style with milk and sugar and the solution to his information gathering problem. _(Plan B: Use John's phone. People like John.) _The blackberry going off in his hand destroys both hopes with uncanny precision. John's reply explains in perfect grammar and with alarming love for detail just what Sherlock can do with himself for all he cares. _(Sherlock files the nastier vocabulary away for later use. It is interesting, this tired John.)_

A little disappointed the detective flops down on the sofa and lets his naked feet dangle over the armrest. John and his sleep are always a delicate topic, and he is clever enough to leave the man to his slumber for now. Especially since the explosion. Sleep and not enough sleep and unconsciousness-is-not-the-same are a bigger topic since the explosion.

**I will burn the heart out of you.**

Nonononono. Bad thought. John is right here. Right here in the flat, two and a half metres above him and four metres to the left. John is fine. John, he thinks with a sudden urgency, _John _is fine.

**I will take them from you.**

_Them_. Not _him. _Not _it. _**Them**. Sherlock feels suddenly and inexplicably cold. His fingers are strangely stiff when he angles for his blackberry and opens the text menu. For a moment they stay there, hovering over the keys indecisively. Then, at 06:25 a.m. on the sofa in his living room, Sherlock throws all his cautions to the wind, dials a number and presses the phone to his ear with a sudden urge of _something (big, dark, looming, not logical in the slightest). _

It dials. Someone picks up. A grunt, sleepy and annoyed and definitely alive. _(Up to this point he hadn't known what to expect, but now his knees wobble with sudden relief.)_

"Lestrade?"

The silence continues on, stretches too far. Sherlock is admittedly not an expert in social niceties _(high-functioning sociopath, thank you very much) _but it shouldn't take the man this long to reply. Finally, after what feels like an eternity _(and wh__at does that say about him when he knows exactly that the gap only lasted for thirtyfour seconds precisely) _the voice of the D.I. can be heard on the line.

"Sherlock."

There is no anger in this voice, no sleepy haze, but another kind of tiredness- of _exhaustion- _that Sherlock can't quite place. _(John could, he thinks. John can. But John is asleep.) _This is not the voice that asks for his help with a case, that can sum up the facts better than anyone else at the NSY, and that explains to curious journalists that they are working on it. _This _voice _(and it is Lestrade'**s**, that yes, but it is not **Lestrade**) _is flat and empty and dead. Lestrade never lacks emotion, not even when he should be. Especially not when he is thrown out of bed inthe morning by a certain consulting detective. Worked up, possibly. Worried, likely. Pissed, true. But not _empty. _It is, Sherlock thinks with sudden consternation, as if the inspector had been dangerously mad for a while and then... then he just_ stopped caring_.

Sherlock hangs up. He puts the phone down on his chest, presses his head back into the pillows, takes a deep breath and... runs. Up the stairs and further, harassed, driven by this alien _Something _inside of him that scares him so, he dashes through the door upstairs and falls over a chair. He lands on the bed, a thin thing so unlike his own, and thus unavoidably on top of John.

And John, being the soldier he was trained to be _(because despite all the debate about his sleeping habits he is still a fighter, is still dangerous), _John bolts upright, all senses on high alert in split seconds, lands in a fighting stance next to the bed, hands into fists, eyes wild and sharp. And it would be an impossible picture, impressive and proud and redoubtable. Too bad his leg remembers just then that it is supposed to be limp _(it has been worse since the explosion, much worse and only slowly better), _and he stumbles and falls. Were this an attempted murder, he'd be doomed. But this isn't an enemy, not a hostile soldier, no deadly assassin, _it's just Sherlock..._

"Sherlock?"

This one-word-question, this mention of his name wrapped into a heap of emotion _(and be they confusion and annoyance and the shaky shock of adrenaline leaving the body) _have the detective's hands shaking. He is crouched on the slim mattress and claws at scratchy blankets and stiff sheets and tries desperately to sort his racing thoughts. _Priorities. What are your priorities, Sherlock Holmes?_

"What day is it?"

Maybe it is his expression _(confused, frightened in a new and painfully _essential_ way, hair wild and unbrushed); _maybe it's his breathing _(too fast and too low), _or his hands in the sheets. Maybe it's just that John is John and does what John does. In any case the man gets up, and none of his movements betrays his pain and the exertion behind it. He puts a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder _(warm, calming, soothing) _and looks right into his eyes _(no one ever does that, no one but John) _and says: "Thursday. It's thursday, Sherlock."

Thursday. A random, normal day of the week that John doesn't have to work on. The hospital doesn't need him today, he's no head of department; he doesn't play an irreplacable part in the neverending parade of life and death _(though Sherlock would never say that aloud). _But there is someone who is all that, who is important and a leader and who should be anywhere in London on a normal thursday at half past six, anywhere at all, but in bed. Anywhere but _where he is right now._

Captured by his own racing thoughts he mutters to himself, but John catches the words and is faster, disappearing downstairs for a moment _(Johnjohnjohn) _and then he is back again, pressing something into Sherlock's hands. He smells cheap paper and printing ink and rain. The paper. **The Times**, to be precise. News.

Detective Inspector Lestrade should be at the Yard right now. When this routine breaks, then something is fundamentally wrong in London. And when something is wrong in London, the press knows about it. **Politics. Economy. Sports. Local News.**

**Scotland Yard In Trouble**_  
>An anonymous call yesterday evening lead<br>to the temporary suspension of NSY's head  
>of forensics, A.<br>A heated debate with some reporters lead  
>to palpabilities, resulting in the suspense of<br>other policemen and Co-workers, including  
>a D.I. Gregory L.<br>According to our latest information, the core  
>of the matter was a case of adultery. From<br>what we've heard so far, the hint came in  
>from a Londoner private detective earlier...<br>_

__Sherlock drops the paper on the ground and frowns. This does not make sense. Head of forensics A., that's Anderson without a doubt. Adultery- that would be his affair with Donovan. It would also explain the mentioned palpabilities- Donovan has always had a bit of a temper. And of course Lestrade would step in and take the blame. _Temporary suspense, _right. He gives headquarters a day, two at most, before everyone is back at the job. The Yard can't take the loss of one of its few competent D.I.s. No, the problem is elsewhere. **Lodoner private detective, **he thinks. His thoughts are thick and slow like syrup. Londoner private detectives don't work like this. Bad work ethics. And who would pay one for this? Anderson's wive? She's out of country at the moment _(or so Donovan's knees tell him). _So why would a private detective... A** private detective**?

Oh.

_Oh._

Of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Obvious. And so simple, too. All that's needed is a couple of pictures _(ridiculously easy to get) _and a call from a small, anonymous phone booth. In the name of a private detective. In _his _name. It'd be untypical for Sherlock Holmes, of course, but for the public? Good fodder. Lestrade should know that, of course. _He should know that Sherlock would never- he couldn't possibly believe that, and what reason would there be- surely the D.I. is cleverer than that?_ Right?

_(The room remains silent, breathless, and he feels the sudden urge to scream and scare the answer out of its hiding place:_ **RIGHT?**_)_

"Sherlock", John whispers and his voice is strained. He turned on the bedside lamp and scanned the article in question, and his eyes are hard when they meet Sherlock's. "Promise me- swear by your brain and your violin, that this is not your doing."

He is speechless. More so, he is at a loss of words _(words have left him, from one second to the next and it is hard and unforgiving and motionless and it **hurts**)._ Everything stops. Time itself seems to stutter, to pause for a second before it races on. Sherlock can only stare. Misty grey eyes and deep blue chasms fight without mercy, and then John finds what he is looking for, because his features soften at once and lose their strain while the cold fury in the corners of his mouth takes on a different quality, aimed at someone else. Now he sinks down next to Sherlock and tears his hair. Their shoulders touch when he moves. Sherlock doesn't like body contact, but right now he doesn't mind. This is John. John is different. _(Or so he thought anyway.)_

"I am sorry", the doctor says softly and he means it. _(I__s this man even able to lie? Sherlock doesn't really believe it.) _And the taller man presses his shoulder a little more against his friend's. New silence settles, but a different kind, eloquent and warm.

"Of course you wouldn't do something like this", he continues eventually. "It's just.. why would anyone? Who would?" He is talking to himself, in half-sentences, and it should annoy Sherlock but it doesn't. _(When did that happen? A small part of his finally active brain wonders. He doesn't have an answer. Maybe John has always been the one big exception to his rules. Maybe there never were rules to begin with. How very confusing.) _The questions John is asking he can answer. Those are easy. The answer isn't. It is fleeting like London autumn fog and just as unfathomable, and it makes him sick.

"Moriarty, of course."

John doesn't flinch at the mention of the name. He doesn't start either and his eyes don't widen and he doesn't grind his teeth. No, he just nods, sighs- a deep, long sigh full of humility and exhaustion-, sits up straight, ruffles his hair once more and calls Lestrade.

"Hey. Yeah, it's me. John. John Watson? Doctor, Sidekick, drinking pal? Just the one, man. No. No, wait, listen- _listen, Greg- _yes. As soon as possible. Of course you need to, yes, it's neccessary. Today. Sure, just- _yes, _I know, but you have to- _okay, _either you're coming over or we are. Your choice. Yes, I mean it. No, Greg, _Greg, for the love of God, calm down. _Look, why don't you sleep some more, God knows you need it, and then..."

The call goes like this for some time, with John alternating between soothing tones and annoyance, while Sherlock sits next to him and arranges his hair bach into its natural form _(the strands are all ruffled and wrong, spiky, and John should get a haircut, but Sherlock likes it like this and it looks like they could grow out into curls and the thought amuses him). _Somewhere in the middle of the call the tone changes into something rougher and friendlier, and John leans a little more into Sherlock's hands and smiles while he talks. He manages to convince Lestrade of a private conversation in 221b. Relief fills the air _(and what, **what **__had he been afraid of?). _They will talk and sort it out and if this doesn't go spectacularily wrong, then it will all be fine by the end of the day.

Somehow Sherlock can't shake the feeling that Moriarty miscalculated somewhere.

He isn't sure if that is a success.


	5. Song

Down the street for a bit longer  
>Everything is so familiar, so peaceful<br>Not much changed, just the car in the entrance  
>And the door is wide open, like they've just popped out<br>As if someone had left but came back in a few  
>To embrace you tightly and take care of you<br>And say, don't you worry, you aren't alone  
>Covers you up with the words "I'll be here"<p>

_Now, at the fence with view of the garden  
>With view of the house it is all betrayed<em>

It is the thoughts in secrecy, the short moments  
>Thought and suppressed to not go any further<br>Smashed the wall unit three times already in your mind  
>But when it really happens you can't take it anymore<br>How you sell things to be prepared for the future  
>And now you are here and don't dare to go in<br>You just stay standing here and only now realize  
>That you can never prepare for this<p>

_Now, at the fence with view of the garden  
>With view of the house it is all betrayed<em>

_Because there wasn't even a chance  
>Because you just left,<br>Because you just left  
>As if you had all the time of the world to come back and meet up<br>Because words aren't enough  
>And memories stay<br>And because the child that left  
>Now stands in front of the house<br>And realizes and regrets  
>That it's not a child anymore<em>


	6. 3: Test

**A/N:** _Yes. Here it is. I am terribly sorry for the delay. Translating is harder work than it lets on..._  
><em>In the unaired pilot episode there is one scene during which we can read one of Sherlock's mails. The name of the sender, as much as one can read, is "Gregson L". I have no idea whether "Gregory" is fannon or canon, but I know one thing: Lestrade's first name will (for me) never, ever be <em>Gregson.  
><em>Also I would like to announce that I have found the ultimate Sherlock song and that I might just be willing to share this knowledge with you, if you in turn can tell me who the "six people in the world" mentioned in this chap are.<em>

**Quote:** _There is an East Wind coming, Watson..._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three_Test<strong>

* * *

><p>"Let me sum this up one more time."<p>

It is late morning in London, England, and the sun is shining with visibly more force through the living room windows of 221b Baker Street, drawing glowing patterns on the faded red carpet. John and Sherlock are seated in their respective chairs- John is leaning back right now, absently sucking his lower lip into his mouth, while Sherlock leans in closer in anticipation. He has his legs elegantly folded and his chin is propped up on his hands. The center of his attention is one D.I. Gregory "Greg" Lestrade, by trade one of the best policemen at the NSY _(though Sherlock would probably tell you otherwise) _and for the first time in years at least partially on the ball. _(And __shouldn't my temporary suspension bother me more? He thinks by himself_. _But no- after John's call he turned back around and slept for another few heavenly hours.) _Now, awake and much calmer than a few minutes ago _(when John had to get him away from Sherlock's grin by sheer force) _he frowns as he tries to put the pieces together in his mind.

"What you say is", he starts and looks right into Sherlock's pale eyes _(he is one of six people in the world who are able to do this, and it took him years to learn it), _"Jim Moriarty has stopped playing hide-and-seek with us, is back to London, and his first move in months is to get rid of _me_?"

A desperate sigh escapes Sherlock and he tears his hair. "_Lestrade_", he says and makes the name sound like an insult. "Think. This wasn't about _you_. Your involvation is merely a bonus." He has showered and changed out of yesterday's wrinkled suit and into dark trousers and a simple white shirt, though unmistakeably a high-quality one. _(And how does someone with a flatshare pay this stuff, anyway?) _His curls are still damp and after the attack of his hands the strands are sticking out in all directions. In the sunlight they shine in a dark red, so unlike their normal dark brown, and not for the first time John is taken aback by the family resemblance that is revealed in millions of small gestures and personal features of the two Holmes brothers, present or not. He blinks a few times, scratches the bridge of his nose and turns his attention back to the case- or to be precise, to the Inspector, who remains unimpressed by Sherlock's antics and simply tries again.

"So Moriarty is back on the job as consulting criminal, and his first move is the suspension of _Anderson?_" For some reason Anderson's name sounds even more like an insult than his own did a few moments ago, and Gregory bites his tongue in sudden guilt. Sherlock, on the other hand, seems positively enthusiastic.

"This, on the other hand", he says _(and really, can't he at least pretend not to be happy about it), _"hits the nail on the head."

Lestrade realizes that his breathing is too fast and too low and forces himself to take a deep breath and calm down. This whole conversation is madness. Utter madness. It is ridiculous, really _(and he feels shrill laughter bubble up in his chest), _ridiculous, but Sherlock is not joking. From the corners of his eyes he can see John giving him a concerned glance, before he turns back to Sherlock. They are both waiting for an explanation from the detective, anything to understand this nonsense, while said detective seems suddenly and utterly taken in by a patch of wallpaper above the fireplace. _Beg me, _the curve of his lips says. It is Lestrade who finally breaks the silence _(and curse this, not only does John know how to play the game, is is also better at it already). _Nervously licking his lips, he starts to talk, and John gets up at once and disappears into the kitchen, no doubt fetching him a drink. _(The man pays attention in his own way, Greg thinks. It gets lost next to Sherlock's brilliant deductions, but John Watson has an __uncanny knack for gestures and expressions. They complete each other. He shakes his head to clear it of these thoughts. In this direction madness lies.)_

"Sherlock", the inspector says very slowly, _"I have no idea, what you are talking about."_

In an exaggeratedly bewildered gesture, the young man runs a hand down his face. "Really, civillians nowadays." Greg grounds his teeth and is glad that John puts a tea mug in his hands before he can do something else with them. Break Sherlock's nose, to name but an example. He sips at the steaming drink and is surprised to not find tea but hot chocolate in his mouth. No, not hot chocolate- rum with a trace of cocoa, he thinks and feels like hugging John for this _(in a very manly way, of course). _The trick is as simple as it is brilliant- Sherlock _despises _cocoa, and he makes sure that people know when he dislikes something.

"Obviously", Sherlock says just now and puts both feet down hard, "this is a test for me. In his message, Moriarty said he wants to-"

"Hold it", John interrupts him just as Lestrade utters a flabberghasted "Come again?". Just what is Sherlock saying there? Quickly the Inspector motions for the doctor to continue. "Hold it", John repeats in a low voice, and suddenly there is something dangerous in his tone- something hard and dark that is an unsettling contrast to his quiet appearance. Lestrade swallows thickly. _"What message, Sherlock?"_

_Uh oh._ Lestrade leans back into the cushions, sips his cocoa and works on his invisibility skills. Sherlock, on the other side of the couch table, seems to be unimpressed. Only a lifted eyebrow allows speculation about his thoughts. "A CD. That's why I took your old player yesterday. It came in the mail and I sent the envelope to the Yard for analysis. You were working." For some reason now it sounds as if the whole matter were Lestrade's and John's fault. The doctor's dark blue eyes turn to Gregory and the man finds himself wondering if the weapon _(which-must-not-be-named) _is in the room. He dearly hopes it isn't.

"Well, now that you mention it. We did get an envelope yesterday. In an envelope. Left by a courier that we had to pay. There was no sender and no further explanations, and quite frankly we had other things to worry about, so we ignored it." This time John's eyebrows rise to his hairline. Sherlock waves his hand, dismissively. "Unimportant details, Lestrade. Unimportant." _(Everyone in the room knows that this is Sherlock for "I didn't think of this". But no one objects. And what could they possibly say?)_

"In any case there was a message. Moriarty- at least I strongly suspect it to be him- threatened me to attack people close to me next. It seems he is unhappy with the result of our little pool-affair and now plans to get rid of me for good. before starting up on anything new." He sniffs indignantly, but the corners of his mouth are turned up in a way that suggests that he is actually rather pleased with himself. John facepalms with a groan.

Lestrade doesn't even know what to say. There is so much wrong with Sherlock's last sentence that he can't even think of where to begin. Next to him, John sighs, face still buried in his hands. _(It is a deep, exhausted exhalation of breath, and Lestrade feels the weight of it as if it were his own.)_ Then the shorter man gets up and disappears through the door at the far end of the kitchen, presumably to fetch mentioned CD-Player from Sherlock's quarters. Lestrade takes a deep breath. "Sherlock", he says and those fog grey eyes focus on him again. "How does _people close to you _connect to _And__erson?_ You hate the man." _And the feeling is mutual, too._

Sherlock makes a face. "Don't be silly, Lestrade. I don't hate Anderson any more than I could hate a tree. Or a stone. On the ground of the Thames. He doesn't fall within the spectre of intelligence necessary to make a being hateable. It's not his fault. He's just plain dumb. I guess it runs in the family." Lestrade flinches at the insult, but Sherlock exhales softly and for a moment- a second really- his shoulders seem to slump. Then the Yarder blinks, and the moment is gone. "But yes, it is a test. And it's not over either. Obviously, Moriarty starts at the outer edges of my social contacts, but he won't stop there."

This doesn't calm Lestrade in the slightest. Why would Moriarty care about Sherlock's _(rather non-existing) _social life in the first place? He realizes, and not for the first time, that he actually has no idea just what happened that night at the pool three months ago. There are thousands of questions to be asked, but he doesn't know where to start, and then the opportunity to say anything has passed.

John saves them from having to talk at all by coming back and putting the object of interest down on the low couch table in front of them. It is a rather battered old thing, this CD-Player, complete with a cassette deck and a radio tuner and obviously battery-run. Without much ceremony, John presses play.

They listen to the message three times total, and then continue to focus on bits and pieces of it at a time. Sherlock gathers his notes from his room, carefully hiding the threatening ones, and goes through them again. John sucks his lower lip in agitation, leaving scrap marks on the skin, and Lestrade catches himself copying the movement. They run through theories, pouring forth ideas and speculations wilder and angrier as the evening progresses and only leaving the room once when takeout arrives. The activity seems fleeting with nothing to go on, but there is nothing, there are no crime scene photos and manila folders and documents, there are just three men and a CD. _Where next? Why now? How do we stop it? _Each new question leads to dread. Sometimes they just sit there for minutes, silently staring at the wallpapers. Sherlock will throw words at them, little bits of information ripped from the context that only he can hear, but they listen anyway because it helps him, and still after hours and hours of pacing and sitting and chewing on fingernails and cold pork a solution seems no closer than at the beginning of it all.

Gregory Lestrade doesn't leave when the sun disappears behind the rooftops in the west and illuminates the pall of smog above the city in burning red. He stays as the discussion runs back and forth in circles and the words have a sharp edge to them for angry hours. He doesn't leave the flat when Sherlock explains that he doesn't _wish _for anything to happen do Anderson, or Donovan, or anyone- but that it doesn't effect him in the slightest if something does happen. He stays awake over John's suggestion of a list of possible next victims, one at which Sherlock only snorts dismissively. He listens to the sudden rain around midnight hammering against the windows while searching the cupboards for bugs and cameras. It is far past three in the morning when he finally steps out onto the empty streets and claims his car out of thousands to get home.

No one reminds him to be careful, or watch out, or call once he's home. That's because they don't have to. He doesn't have to be told to check his car for explosives before he gets in, and he doesn't have to be lectured to keep his gun on his nighstand when he falls into the sheets. He never leaves his phone unattended anymore and sometimes finds himself staring at the display for minutes, waiting for something that doesn't happen. And he watches the people on the streets with a new intensity, on a new level, avoids alleyways and shortcuts and parks after ten at night. It is paranoia, this, but what is worse is that it's rectified.

_(Sherlock Holmes calls himself a sociopath, and Lestrade let's him talk. But he, other than Anderson, has done his research. And when John suggested a list of people close to Sherlock, the man's eyes flickered to meet the Inspector's for a split second, which was enough. Enough for a strange mix of protectiveness and fear settling in his guts. No one reminds him to be careful, and that's because they don't have to. If Jim Moriarty has to play with Sherlock's feelings, he won't do it by the means of Gregory Lestrade. Not if he can help it.)_


	7. Definition

**Sociopathy** is an expression in Angoamerican psychiatry describing a disorder of the social behavior of the patient.  
>Today's meaning of the concept <strong>sociopathy<strong> refers to persons who are not or only restrictedly capable to feel sympathy, have problems to acquaint oneselves with the feelings of others and who are unable to foresee possible consequences of their actions.

The antisocial personality disorder is indicated by a distinctive discrepancy between actual behaviour and valid social norms. Typical features are

*The incompetence to put oneself in someone else's position  
>*The incompetence to accept responsibility, at the same time<br>*Rejection and disregard of all social norms, rules and obligations  
>*The incompetence to maintain long-term relationships, however<br>*No problems to start new relationships  
>*Low tolerance towards frustration<br>*Tendency to aggressive and violent behavior  
>*Missing ability to feel guilt<br>*The inability to learn from past experiences.

Another sign for this illness can be a continuous irritability. The disturbance can develop in or after childhood.


	8. 4: Threat

**A/N:**_ Okay. OKAY. I have to admit it, I am officially obsessed with Sherlock freaking Holmes. And now I found this amazing fic here on FF: THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. The style is new and refreshing and the plot is well-done and fast, but what I really recommend here is Chapter 5. Brcause. This has to be the best. Character Study. I've seen so far. I guess I'll have to quote a lot from that in the future. All rights and the honour go to #skyfullofstars.  
>Also no one got the list of 6 people right. Sorry, guys. But don't worry. You will know which song it is in a few chaps. :)<br>_

**Quote: **_He does not know that his drivers draw lots to see who has the privilege of driving him that day to the next meeting; he is unaware that his personal bodyguards vie with each other to see who will be posted outside his home that night. He probably is totally unaware that his people would sacrifice their very existence for him, this man who is England, that they would make that sacrifice in a heartbeat, and count it as the greatest honor life could possibly bestow. This, then, is the type of respect he is afforded and this, the loyalty he has engendered. (skyfullofstars: There But For The Grace Of John Watson)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four_Threat<br>**

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes has a problem.<p>

He sees his little brother _(the life he vowed to protect; the foundation of all his ambitions)- _sees his little brother meddling in affairs too big for him, and he doesn't know what to do about it.

Sherlock doesn't listen to his brother. Sherlock doesn't listen to anyone. He has his own head, and he doesn't like it when people tell him what to do. And least of all he likes Mycroft interfering with his life.

_(Sherlock knows a lot about Mycroft, probably more than anyone else ever will. And he suspects- rightfully so- that Mycroft's position in the government has a lot to do with him. It annoys him to no end that they have been born with minds so alike and yet chose to take entirely different directions in life. But worst of all, and probably the core of the matter, is this: Mycroft Holmes is the only man known to them whose intellect is _above_ Sherlock's. For him, it is like a constant reminder that he will never be good enough. It is like failing.)_

Doctor John Hamish Watson, war veteran wounded in action, has provoked changes in their stuck relationship. Change is good, in the vernacular, and in this case Mycroft is willing to agree. Dr. Watson- _John- _keeps an eye on Sherlock, and he isn't rejected by the man because of inopportune circumstances such as _blood relationship _or a _shared child__hood _or _his IQ. _Thanks to him, the younger Holmes does not have to fend for himself for the first time in years, and it's by far not about simple neccessities anymore.

John doesn't just provide warm meals, he also makes Sherlock eat them. He doesn't just guide Sherlock to bed after a case, he also waits until the man is asleep. He doesn't simply run after Sherlock, he watches his back. And he not only lets Sherlock talk, he also listens to him.

Sherlock Holmes has played many roles in his life. He was **that boy **who had the periodic table memorized before he knew how to divide simple terms. He was **this guy **at university who snuck into the labs at midnight to blow up test tubes. He was **scary, crazed **and **strange. **For an era hurtful for everyone involved, he was **the junkie**, alternating between being over the moon and down in the dumps, agonizing and destructive. And for many years- _far too long, thirty years too long- _he was **the freak **and **the** **psychopath**.

John Watson is the first person since his row with Mycroft who lets him be **human, **and Sherlock doesn't quite know how that works anymore. But _he tries. _He still doesn't talk to people, but he talks to _John. _He plays the violin at four in the morning, but he plays a _melody. _He makes things explode in the kitchen, but he _clea__ns up _the mess afterwards.

Of course men don't change overnight, and he is no exception. Sometimes he forgets his experiments in the bath tub. Sometimes he is tactless, harsh, and John has to explain to him why that was _a bit not good. _Sometimes he crawls into John's bed seeking body heat, without a sense of decency, but John lets him do it because Sherlock wouldn't understand. Because he is looking for closeness. When he is bored, he shoots at the walls of the flat with an illegal army weapon, but at least he doesn't do drugs anymore. _(In fact it has been almost one year since he has last put a syringe up his arm.) _And more and more often they arrive at a crime scene, John a bit behind and to the left, always watching, always there- and Sherlock_ shares_.

_(Whether John knows of the significance of this fact, Mycroft can't tell. It is fascinating how hard John is to read at times. But the facts remain. Sherlock Holmes is a man who _owns- _knowledge or possessions, it doesn't matter as long as they are his. That he steps aside and asks John for his opinion, takes the time to listen, to watch- that's something big, and sometimes Mycroft wonders... but no, this is not a topic to dwell on for now.)_

He reminds Sherlock of his human part. And that's good. That's exceptional and more than Mycroft could ever hope for. He is perfectly aware of the fact that this relationship has saved more than one life. _(In fact he has footage proving that John __was about sixty-two hours away from his second attempt at suicide when they met.) _And he is thankful, impossibly thankful for the direction things have taken now.

**But.**

Just like everything else in life this coin, too, has two sides.

Sherlock has realized that he doesn't have to be alone. But he inevitably has to forget what it was _like _to be alone over it. And from this develops a **_fear- _**a fear so strong and profound and essential that it threatens to pull down everything around it like a maelstrom, until one feels like suffocating and every thought is wiped from the brain like letters from a blackboard, leaving nothing behind. _(Mycroft knows this fear. Oh yes, he knows it well.) _But at the same time you can't let go, because living without its cause would be even worse than living in angst.

John Watson has given Sherlock Holmes something to lose.

And Sherlock has apprehended enough murderers and seen enough horror in his life to know that it doesn't take much to destroy a life. It has always been evident, obvious, how easy it is to kill and crush and annihilate; it just hasn't held any importance to him. Until now. And because fate has decided to give his mother not one but two sons, by means of extension it is now also important to Mycroft.

The ring finger of his right hand pounds a sudden staccato against the magahoni surface of his desk. _(It is the only observable nervous habit Mycroft has. He picked it up deliberately after going to Oxford. Sitting still for too long always provokes attention. Now it is habitual, and frankly that's fascinating enough to keep doing it.) _His assistant, the woman whose name is not Anthea, looks up from her laptop screen for a moment to give him a questioning glance, and he responds by lifting the corners of his mouth a fraction. Reassured, she turns her attention back to the screen.

_(Today is her birthday, but of course she sticks to her daily routine. The fact that she is able to work under this man- that she has his trust- is enough for her, even if it means that she had to give up her old life for him. Naturally, Mycroft knows about the date, but he doesn't say anything. He, too, remains professional. And if there is a piece of apple cake and a simple silver necklace waiting on her kitchen cupboard when she comes home tonight- well, stranger things have happened between heaven and earth.)_

The high-pitched ring of his iPhone 6 disturbs the quiet clacking of her nails on the keys and announces a new message. The device is still being beta tested, and Mycroft loves his blackberry passionately, but he always respects progress, so he accepted the offer to try the phone for a while. "Check sender", he says into the following silence and opens the mail program on his computer. Anthea coordinates his schedule, but it never hurts to look at everything twice, and some things even she mustn't see.

"Unknown", a synthetic voice answers. He frowns briefly- _only his closest contacts have the iPhone's number- _ but a few of the mails distract him. The Home Secretary asks for the confirmation of the newest budget plans, and the PM invites him for tea next weekend. A nice afternoon with the family, the mail says. Mycroft sips at his coffee _(freshly made, sweetener instead of sugar, low-fat milk- he has to thank the kitchen staff) _and returns his attention to the phone.

"Please ask Henson for the budget plans, would you. And move my appointments for next saturday. I'll be visiting the Prime for tea." He opens his text menu and his relaxed expression changes into an annoyed frown, then blank confusion, and finally settles into carefully controlled fury.

He stands up from his chair, and automatically Anthea followes his movements before looking up and seeing his face. His eyes have turned steel gray and his lips are merely a thin line.

"Are we going out, Sir?" she asks, grabbing her blackberry from the desk. He takes a deep breath and allows her to help him into his coat. _(Their relationship has stopped being platonic years ago. To the world outside, he may represent the British government. But here, in the confined space of his office, they are but two friends trying to brighten the other's day. In this office, they are nothing but human beings, acting as such.) _"Unfortunately something requires my immediate attention. I have recieved another threat." He buttons up his coat with quick efficiency and reaches for his umbrella in the stand next to the door.

Anthea pauses. She wants to say something but isn't sure if she should. Mycroft stops in the door and looks at her with an encouraging expression until she smiles softly, but her eyes remain worried. "Sir. How will you decide?"

"For the better, I hope", he says and lets out a small sigh. She squeezes his arm and then lets go, a gentle gesture of affection _(I'm sure you will) _and he lifts the corners of his mouth in a quiet smile. Then he nods, straightening himself up, and leaves the office.

_Better for England or better for Sherlock? _The woman whose name is not Anthea can't help but wonder. But the thought lingers only for a moment. She is full of trust that Mycroft Holmes is capable of bringing both of his lifelong tasks to a satisfying end. She turns back to his appointments, rearranges the Saturday and cancelles the meeting with the Russian delegation at eight p.m. today, just to be safe. Then she calls agent Louis Henson to ask for the budget plans for the Home Secretary.

But in the lower right corner of her screen a window remains opened. It shows a section of a London street map, and in the middle is a small red dot slowly moving north, blipping as it does.

Anthea may not always be with Mycroft Holmes, but she'll be damned if she lets him out of his sight when he goes.


	9. Game

**Friday, 10/28/2011  
>2:54 p.m.<br>User: Mycroft Holmes**

(1) new message(s):

**Sender Unknown  
><strong>_Let's play a game. You and I.  
>An experiment in the name of beauty.<br>You can't refuse. It has already begun.  
>You are next.<em>


	10. 5: Mycroft

**A/N: **_I feel like I have to finish this story before Season 2 airs. And I know that I can't do this. So the question is, will you stick with me even after we know what's going to happen after the pool? Or is continuing this fic nonsense? I don't even know anymore. I don't know._

**Warning: **_One nasty word. I think._

**Quote:**_ "I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having." - "What's that?" - "An enemy." (A Study In Pink)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five_Mycroft<strong>

* * *

><p>John stares into the fridge in disbelief, unable to comprehend what he's seeing. For a few long moments he simply stands there and breathes, deep and controlled intakes and exhales of air through his nose. Then he closes the fridge door, shuts his eyes and waits. <em>Maybe he's wrong. Maybe he didn't look close enough. Maybe he isn't going crazy after all. <em>After exactly five seconds he has regained enough control over his body to open the metal doors once more.

With the same results.

The fridge contains at the given moment: Half a bottle of orange juice; a bottle of apple juice; a bottle of Champagne; a jar with pickles; a pack of cheese; two beer cans; a half-eaten tin of sugar-free pineapple slices; an opened pack of bread rolls; a red paprika; a margarine box _(not neccessarily containing margarine); _and a cherry jar _(definitely not containing cherries). _

The fridge does **not **contain: Milk.

John's gaze wanders to the cup of tea in his hands without really seeing them. Instead he goes over the last few days in his mind: Wednesday, almost two days ago, he did some shopping at Tesco after his shift in the hospital. Apart from a wide variety of edibles and basic commodities he also brought _five bottles of milk. _He _knows _that four of said bottles have still been there yesterday evening, he _knows. _And yet now, not half a day later, they are gone. There aren't even empty bottles to be found anywhere; the milk simply disappeared. As if it had never been there in the first place.

He doesn't ask Sherlock. He knows better by now. It is, after all, not the first time that the milk meets its mysterious end in the confined spaces of 221b. _(John still doesn't know whether his flatmate uses it for experiments or is simply a milk-junkie. One day he will have to find out, but he is not ready to face the matter yet. It is entirely possible that Sherlock simply empties the milk down the drain when he's not looking, if only to annoy John. Everything is possible. Right now he can't rule out either idea. It is kind of depressing.)_

Whatever the case, the facts remain, and John has to make a decision: Either he drinks his tea without milk for the next days, or he does what a man has to do.

"Sherlock, I'm off to Tesco. You need anything?"

Sherlock appears in the doorway soundless like a ghost. He moves like a cat when he feels like it, without leaving a trace and without any noise. Most of the time he doesn't feel like it, stomping about in frustration, and this is a nice change if it weren't scary as something. Now he gives John a _look, _and it is one of those moments- the rare moments in which he seems about to say something spontaneously, illogically, **something **and then they both blink and the moment is gone. _(It happens more and more often lately and to be honest, it frightens John.) _But Sherlock grins a real, friendly grin, all guards down, and John doesn't fail to notice the rarity of the gesture.

"Oh, yes. But you couldn't remember it."

John frowns, irritated, but ultimately choses to ignore the sideswipe against his intelligence. "You could write it down, you know."

But Sherlock waves his hand dismissively and rolls his eyes as if there were little less absurd than this. "John. _Please. _It is entirely more rational to accompany you and get it myself."

This catches John off guard. Sherlock doesn't do shopping. Never does. The last time he offered to do, the evening ended with a darkened swimming pool bursting into flames. Now, John may not be a genius like Sherlock Holmes or Jim Moriarty. But he has been a soldier vor many years _(and survived), _and he has been a doctor for even longer _(and still is), _and he couldn't have accomplished both had he not a high perception. He has many gifts, this man, but most importantly he has an extensive knowledge of the human character. And that is why he sees right away what Sherlock _(high-functioning sociopath his ass) _couldn't say in a thousand words: **You alone out there, and me alone in here, that frightens me, John. Don't just go off on your own.**

"Fine", he says quietly. "Let's go together then."

The way down the street to Tesco would be entirely boring and uneventful if not for the fact that exactly this is making John nervous. He has a vague but bad feeling about it, and normally he can trust his feelings. Again and again he turns his head to glance over his shoulder, and eventually even _Sherlock _reminds him to act less suspiciously. John can't even say what is bothering him- he doesn't see anything out of place. The streets are more or less empty, and none of the friday-morning-shoppers look suspicious or dangerous in any way. It takes a long time- they are at the check-out, loaded with bags and boxes, and _Sherlock is actually paying the groceries- _until he finally gets that this is exactly what_ is_ wrong. _It's not danger being where there should be none. It is no one being where there should be_ _guards._

_Mycroft's men have disappeared from the streets._

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but of course he knew after three steps from the door _(the bastard). _They hurry along on their way back, somehow balancing four plastic bags and two small boxes with quite questionable contents between them and discussing the possible use of an upright vacuum cleaner for their flat. It all goes well until a taxi stops next to them. Both men freeze immediately, senses sharp, and John's hand itches towards the gun that is tucked safely into his belt beneath the jumper and jacket. Ever since their first case they mistrust conspicuous cab drivers _just a bit. _John's eyes race up and down the street, analysing possible escape routes, and Sherlock holds his breath when the cab doors open and-

Mycroft gets out.

This in itself gives the day a new rank on the scale from One to Unbelievable. But that Mycroft takes one of John's shopping bags, walks right ahead and calls over his shoulder: "So, where were we?", that is something else entirely. That is new and in a subtle way _wrong, _just like it is wrong to meet a rockstar at the gas station. Some people just don't belong to normal, public places doing normal, mundane things. Some people are supposed to carry umbrellas or weapons or guitars but not shopping bags. But we already settled that John knows people- just enough to figure this one out and play along. _(Also thanks to Mycroft, his right hand is now free for shooting, and he is afraid this was no coincidence.) _Sherlock, on the other hand, may be brilliant and three steps ahead of them, but has the social grace of an elephant and therefore doesn't even bother to lower his voice when he asks:

"Something happened?"

Mycroft nods, absently smiling, as if they were talking about the mild october weather. But there is a stiffness in his shoulders and hard lines around his mouth and John swallows thickly. "Someone killed my driver", Mycroft says elatedly. "I had to hail a cab. Very unfortunate. Really, very unfortunate given the circumstances."

A strange cold seems to creep through their coats and right into their bones and it has nothing to do with the chilling wind. Without further words they fasten their steps until they reach the door of 221. John unlocks it and ushers them all in before following himself. He locks the door from the inside, turning the key three times before putting the chain on the door and finally turning around.

"Mrs. Hudson?" He calls into the direction of 221a while shedding his coat at the wardrobe and climbing the 17 steps to flat b. Sherlock has already unlocked the flat door and is now carrying the groceries into the kitchen, followed by a strangely quiet Mycroft. Both their shoes are already standing next to the door- Sherlock's one on top of the other, quickly stripped off and forgotten, Mycroft's lined up and blank. The infamous black umbrella waits for its owner in the corner next to the stairs. Only now it hits John how serious the situation is. Mycroft never takes off his shoes, because he never stays for long. And he never leaves his umbrella outside. It is like a law of nature, like photosynthesis and rain falling downwards. John isn't sure how to deal with the laws being broken.

He is ripped out of his thoughts when downstairs a door opens. Mrs. Hudson appears at the foot of the stairs, wearing a white apron and carrying a wooden spoon. She looks like the stereotypical grandmother from a fairytale and it makes John's heart ache.

"John, my boy, it's nice to see you back!" She waves the spoon at him and he goes back downstairs to meet her. The groceries in his bag are hers anyway. Yesterday he and Sherlock have in mutual agreement asked her to leave the house only in case of emergencies and to not open the doors to strangers. The elderly woman scolded them both for their "overprotectiveness" but in the end she agreed. Sherlock is rarely enough asking for anything. But whether he likes it or not- every blind man can see that he cares for this woman, and cares deeply. She is almost like a mother to him, and she likes it just as much as he does.

**Moriarty isn't a blind man, and he's seen it too.**

"Oh, thank you, darling." Despite his protests she takes the bag from him and smiles at him warmly. _(For some reason it isn't embarrassing or derogatory at all when Mrs. Hudson calls him "boy" or "darling". It's simply affectionate. John often wonders if this is what having a living grandmother is like. Or a mother who cares. He never thinks further than this.) _"This is so lovely of you. By the way, I made way too much soup. Any chance you'll help me get rid of it?" She winks at him when he follows her down the hallway into her small, neat flat. "Just this once, of course. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

He laughs dutifully and takes up position in the kitchen doorway while she fills steaming soup into a big terrine. 221a is cut out similarily to 221b, but this flat is filled to the rim with wood elements and bright wallpapers and old furniture that actually suits each other. It is also very tidy and bright. Every time he comes here, John feels reminded of his first time in the Army, when he was still in England with the small too-clean rooms and then later the little shacks without any room and photos everywhere. Of course it is entirely different here, with the London sky outside and the fire in the fireplace and the smell of wood polish and food instead of metal and sand. Still he is strangely relieved when Mrs. Hudson hands him the terrine and ushers him out of her flat.

He'd thank her but she will have none of it. "Would you fancy coming up for tea later?" He asks instead, already halfway up the stairs. "Mycroft is here too. It'd be nice." _(Mrs. Hudson has positively doted on Mycroft. Sherlock says it's because of his British manners and that he is ingratiating and it's a shame. The old lady herself once told John that Mycroft always seems a little sad and that she likes to see him smile once in a while. And this is the shame, John thinks and then bites his tongue every time and tries not to look too closely.)_

Her face lights up immediately. "Oh, that'd be lovely. If little old me isn't too much of a charge on you young bucks." She winks again and there are little dimples around her mouth that make her look years younger. He only grins, honestly this time, and goes uptrairs.

The door is still open, and he shuts it with his foot before carrying the terrine into the kitchen. The boxes have miraculously disappeared in Sherlock's room, but the three shopping bags are still placed on the counters, waiting for him to come and unpack them. With a sigh he leaves them be. They can wait. There are more important things to think about right now.

Sherlock and Mycroft are seated in the living room, facing each other, but neither speaks. Sherlock is polishing his violin bow, seemingly lost in thought, but from time to time his gaze will flicker over to his brother's face. It is the elder Holmes who is staring out the window, unmoving. For a moment John is absolutely sure that he isn't breathing, so still and quiet is he. Then, as if he had read his thoughts, Mycroft takes a deep breath and turns away from his own reflection in the glass.

"You're staying", John says. It's not what he wanted to say. It isn't a greeting and not a question and somehow it's not a statement either and neither an order; it's not even a coherent sentence. But he still says it. Mycroft is now looking at him, one eyebrow raised, and Sherlock's mirroring him, and they look so _alike _that John wants to grab them by the shoulders and shake them- _don't you see it, you belong with each other, you big stubborn kids- _but instead he sighs and slumps into the free chair. "Sherlock is sleeping on the sofa all the time anyway, so you can have his bed. If you sleep. Does anyone really sleep in your family? Is that a genetic thing? God." He buries his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes and then his hair when he looks back up. Neither brother is answering, but both lift their other eyebrow simultaneously, and it is all John can do not to burst into hysterical laughter. "Never mind", he mutters. "Later. Let's talk about the stuff that matters. Your driver was killed."

A shadow flies over Mycroft's face, for the fraction of a second the corners of his mouth point downwards, then his indifferent expression is back. It is an honour to John that he is allowed these small glances behind those carefully built masks- that those men who are so reserved trust him of all people enough to drop their guards like this. It is also scaring the shit out of him.

**What Mycroft finally says, is:** "Those are the facts, yes. I hailed a cab to get here as fast as possible. I have received a threat."

_(**What Mycroft thinks, is: **"I left the building and the car was already waiting for me. Of course I knew right away that something was wrong. The man holding the door open for me was a complete stranger, and I don't have strangers working for me. Then there is the fact that said man had blood droplets on his coat; obviously he overlooked them on the dark wool, but I didn't. The trunk had been damaged when it was forced open and then shut again moments ago, and the man reeked of chloroform. I didn't even look at him when I stopped the cab, bribed the driver and got here. The car followed me. It's waiting just across the street, and I can see it through the windows. The threat I received this morning wasn't the first, but I won't tell you about the others and neither will I show you its original wording. It is for your own good, even if you don't understand that._"

_**What Mycroft will never say, is: **"Today Linus Meyer was listed as my chauffeur. I know him well. He has been working for me for five years and seven months, and he just celebrated his 43. birthday. His wife, Rita, and his twins believe that he is the driver of some boring, nameless politician, and he leaves it at that out of loyalty and to protect them. They will tell his family that he died in a car crash. We don't have the body yet, but it is only a matter of hours, and once they found it I will identify him because I owe him at least that much. He was a good man, and I feel responsible for his death, but it is a burden I bear. The wording of the last text I got is frighteningly similar to the message sent to you, Sherlock- and it irritates me that I don't know who of us is in greater danger. But Meyers is dead, and John is alive, and what does that tell us? If I could, I'd lock you in somewhere and never let you go back into this world that smashes good people into annihilation without a second glance. But I can't do that. And one day they will call me to identify _your _body, and it will be like dying myself, over and over again every single day I live without you. And I am scared of that."_)

**What John hears, is: **"My day was a mess and it is only getting worse. I am here because I can't go anywhere else and because I worry about my brother, constantly, even if he doesn't want to hear that. And I really need a few minutes by myself. But I am a Holmes, and I am the British government, and I am stronger than this." **What he says, is: **"I'll make some tea and then we talk, all right?"

**What Sherlock hears, is: **"Those are the facts I am willing to give you. The death of my subordinate upsets me and I hailed a cab impulsively, even though it could have ended badly, because Moriarty's ressources are unlimited. Why risk it then? Because I worry about you, Sherlock, and I came to look after you. Also I received various threats, each worse than the former, and it is time to tell you why I didn't answer your texts lately. Besides, you are an idiot and act like a child. Get a grip. We belong on the same side, you and I, and I need you." **What he says, is: **"All well and good, but what do you want?"

His brother leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling, as if the answer to every question was written down up there on the bright paint. Then he looks down again until his gray eyes meet Sherlock's and smiles one of his infamous _this is life- _smiles.

"I'm here to tell you that I see myself obliged to activate plan five seven three. I am here to say goodbye, Sherlock."


	11. Plan

**Plan 573  
>To be delivered to Sherlock Holmes<br>Only open in case of emergency!**

_When you read this, and I mean read officially,  
>when plan 573 came into force, then this very<br>document is the last proof of my existence.  
>Accept it, if you can. Despise it, if you must.<br>But destroy it as quickly as possible. And then  
>forget it, Sherlock. Delete me and everything<br>to do with me from your thoughts.  
>This is a farewell letter. Call me sentimental,<br>little brother. But you have to understand that  
>whatever I did in this life I did for you. My life<br>has become a danger to you and others, and  
>it is my duty as a high-rank politician of our<br>government and as the heir of the Holmes  
>family to remove this threat.<br>People like you and me can make a difference,  
>Sherlock. I still believe in that. People like you<br>can.  
>I am so sorry to have to leave you like this. But<br>I wouldn't dare to do so if I couldn't be sure that  
>you have found someone else to look after you<br>in my place. You will be fine, Sherlock, and you  
>will be happy without your overprotective brother<br>hovering over you.  
>I feel sorry that our lives have turned out this<br>way- that it had to come to this- but I regret  
>nothing.<br>Maybe one day we'll meet again.  
>But I don't think so, little brother.<br>Bring honor to the family's name in my stead.  
>But I hardly have to tell you that, do I.<em>

_M._


	12. 6: Fire

**A/N: **_I am so sorry. Real life is being a bitch, so to speak. Also Christmas turned out to be quite interesting. Guess who got a real honest-to-got oldfashioned pillow with the Union Jack up front. From her friends. Yes. You are right. Be jealous. Awesome is awesome.  
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**Quote: **_All of your problems will begin at the very moment that you take the people by your side for granted._

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><p><strong>Chapter Six_Fire<strong>_  
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><p>At first Sherlock had stayed calm. Granted, he'd shaken his head vehemently and frowned deeply, as if the whole idea were nothing but that- a silly little idea from a silly little human. He had rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue and tried to dismiss the whole thing. But because he was talking to Mycroft, and not just anyone, the man remained unimpressed, and that made Sherlock angry. And <em>then <em>it got loud.

Sherlock had protested, irritated at first, then furious. He had tried to negotiate and then started a discussion, both without drawing so much as a word from his brother. He had refused to follow plan 573 and Mycroft had scolded him; he had rebelled almost childishly and ended up being reprimanded like a child. He whispered, growled and shouted, cried, raged and cursed and threw pillows and then books at the walls- without any success. In the end he had _pleaded _with Mycroft to think about it, and that was when John left the room. Sherlock on his knees was a sight not meant for his eyes. The corners of Mycroft's mouth had pointed downwards again, but he'd remained resolute. The decision was made, he'd said, and that he hadn't come for a _debate_ but for an _announcement._

Now all is silent in the living room, and John deems it safe to risk a glance.

The brothers are facing each other with a few feet of distance between them. Sherlock's right hand is frozen in mid-air, as if he'd been in the middle of a sentence when he suddenly went rigid. Mycroft has both of his hands buried in the pockets of his suit jacket, his back is straight. They are absolutely still, like statues, like the frozen portrait of an argument from times long-forgotten, without any sound. They are cats, noiseless and deadly, that are completely taken up in a contest of simple _staring; _caught in a rudimentary, breathless fight for dominance.

The light falling through the high glass windows behind them dips the scene in a shine of unreality. It turns the brothers' hair into flames of red and brown, stretches their shadows thin and gives their silhouettes a sharper edge. With interest John observes what the sun does to their faces: Sherlock's skin is almost translucent, the light bleaches the little colour from his eyes and turns them into clear crystal. Mycroft's expression is hidden in the shadows, his normally steel-gray eyes bottomless pits, black and gleaming like ink.

Not for the first time the biggest difference between the Holmes brothers becomes clear to John. Sherlock is like liquid fire, always moving, always in action; he needs speed, he _looks _for it. For him life is nothing but a big joke, albeit a cruel one; it's but a game, and the winner takes it all. He isn't looking for control- he wants to _understand_ the processes, the impulses, the _chemistry_ that turns the wheels, but he is rarely interested in steering them somewhere. He absorbs information like a sponge, never tired, never satisfied. He burns with a white-hot flame that spreads to everything around it, always looking for new fuel. When it doesn't find any, it consumes itself to ashes.

Mycroft, John thinks not without fascination, Mycroft is very similar in many aspects, but the resulting lifestyle he chose is entirely different.

Where Sherlock is looking for the smallest parts, the microscopie, the tiniest elements, his brother's interests lay in the great. Mycroft sees the rise and fall of nations, and everything below that is, in the long run, umimportant. He is searching for the calm, the steady, the abiding values in a world that is always fleetnig and turning in circles and repeating the same history over and over again. Wherever there is a common denominator, Mycroft has already found it and analysed and added it into his schemes as well. He sees everything, this man, sees the connections of all planes and understands- if he wants to make a difference, he can only do so from the very top. This is how our modern days work. Long gone are the times of peasants revolts: The top is where the laws are made. And below, below is where they are enforced, and their price is blood.

If Sherlock is fire, fast and wild and explosive, then Mycroft is the quiet poison of the assassin, already pulsing in every vein of the city- unseen, noiseless, unique and absolutely deadly.

_Has it ever occurred to you that we belong to the same side?_

John shakes his head, trying to clear it from those distressing thoughts. He looks at the scene in front of him for a few moments longer- nothing moves but the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, and the silence is deafening- and then, with a last deep sigh, he goes to take a shower.

He only needs a few minutes- it's catlick, precise and efficient, the way the burning Afghan sun and the constant gunfire have taught him. His burn marks are sensitive to water, but John is a doctor and he knows what he can undertake. At least that's what he keeps telling himself while he tries to apply ointment to his back in wild contortions. _(Usually Sherlock helps him with this. But Mycroft is here, and John really hates to interrupt those brotherly meetings. To be quite honest, he's also scared of this confrontation. But.) _Finally he gives up. He gets into a fresh pair of jeans _(he's lost weight, the waistband is far too wide, but his injuries are thankful) _and socks and trudges down the stairs, back into the living room, the tube of ointment in his hand.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but it won't take long. Sherlock, could you..."

His eyes meet Gregory Lestrade's, and silence settles in the room.

The scene in front of him has changed considerably within the last ten minutes. Mycroft is seated in one of the mismatched armchairs, legs crossed. He looks bored, but there is a hint of amusement sparkling in his eyes. Sherlock is sitting in front of him in a similar pose, a book on his knees. Just now his hand is outstretched to take a couple manila folders from Greg. The inspector seems frozen solid in the middle of the room. His eyes flicker over John's exposed chest and back to his face, and suddenly John realizes what he must look like. Heat rises to his cheeks and he lowers his eyes.

Sherlock's snort breaks the sudden quiet. "One should think you have seen a naked man before in your life, Lestrade." He jumps from his armchair and snatches the folders from the Inspector's hands, already scanning the pages. The book whacks a mark into the carpet and Lestrade flinches and turns his attention to the detective in front of him. "This sounds boring," said man announces and throws the folders onto the loaden table to his right, "but I'll have a look later. John?"

John, busy trying to get the ground to open and swallow him, looks up at him. "Huh? Oh, yes. Would you- I can't reach all the, and I didn't know- I can, if it's inconvenient, later-" He stops here, ashamed and embarrassed, and meets Sherlock's gaze with nothing but a lot of willpower and even more defiance.

"Yes, yes, sure. Come on, sit down." Sherlock pulls out a chair and sweeps away the papers that were formerly laying on it. John flinches once at the sight, and then again when his ribs protest, but he obediently crosses the room and flops down on the chair, back between his legs and his own back exposed.

"Should I- I'll just come back later," Lestrade says and shifts his weight to his other leg. Sherlock doesn't even look up. "Don't be stupid. Well. Just sit down for a moment. Or better yet, go make some tea. Tell me about the case. I'll listen." He is desinfecting his fingers- John has no idea where his friend got the antiseptic from, but he hears the hissing of the atomizer and smells it even before it prickles on his back as tiny droplets meet raw skin. The tube lid scratches when Sherlock opens it, then there is a squelching sound when he presses some of the ointment onto his fingers. Finally, coolness meets John's back, and he sighs in relief and buries his head in his good arm on the back of the chair.

John Watson has no memory of the night at the pool. He still remembers to have left the house for Sarah's. The following six hours are missing, and Sherlock hasn't tried to fill him in on anything this far. John doesn't know the reason for this, but sometimes at night there will be nightmares, different ones, pictures of darkness and fire and fear, and then he is glad not to know everything.

Sherlock Holmes remembers every second of the night at the pool with crystal clear accuracy. He can recall every breath, every spoken word, every thought that crossed his mind. Every single moment. He knows exyctly how he came to his injuries- they are minor and few, some scratches, a bruised rib, a graze on his right hip. But he has lost sight of John in the tumult after the shot, if only for a moment, and secretly he believes himself guilty for what happened afterwards. But he never says so. This isn't meant for other ears.

Gregory Lestrade has no idea what happened that night at the pool. He saw the strange entry on Sherlock's website and localized the pool in question, surrounding it just in time to see it blow up in flames. The pictures haunt him night after night, vague schemes and the taste of blood and ashes. He has asked questions, many and more, but never got any answers. Eventually he settled with relief to see everyone alive and well and let the matter go.

Mycroft Holmes has video tapes of said night. He has the confession of one of the snipers who they found alive in the debris. He has audio tapes and he has exhibits. His men were there to dig Sherlock out of the rubble. His doctors worked all night to put the broken thing that was left of John back together. He was there, from the beginning to the end, in one way or the other, and when it came down to it, it wasn't enough.

_(**He **knows that John dislocated his left arm when he threw himself against Sherlock and shielded him from the full force of the explosion, knocking them both to the ground. __**He** knows that John ripped open said arm and his left side when he slid through the debris and glass splinters, cushioning Sherlock's body. _**_He _**_knows that one of the bullets that were flying everywhere missed the doctor's head by mere centimeters and ricocheted against the ceiling, breaking the lights. **He **knows that John got himself a concussion and three bruised ribs when the ceiling came down on them, the chunks of concrete crashing down all around them and finally sending them both flying into the water, where they locked John on the ground of the pool struggling for air. **He **also knows that the white-hot, pulsing line along John's back is a reminder of the copper wire that connected the earpiece and transponder which Moriarty used for his instructions. **He **knows. He has the tapes and the confession. They are his memorandum._

_And **M****ycroft **also knows that some of John Watson's injuries were aquired only after the explosion, when a desperate Sherlock pulled him from the churned-up water and started a cardiopulmonary resuscitation amidst flames and crumbling walls. Two broken ribs, one cracked, and a beating heart were the results. It is_ those _pictures of the fateful night that get to him the most._

_None of this is important right now, and thus he remains silent. But he knows. The only thing he still doesn't understand is the _why. _As in _why did it have to come to this in the first place?_)_

Lestrade comes back into the living room, handing Mycroft a chipped tea cup. He looks shell-shocked, as much as John can tell between his arms and the back of the chair. And he is very sorry for this, but he has no idea as how to apologize. _I'm sorry some madman blew me up? _Instead he nods slightly when Lestrade sets his mug down in front of him and lets Sherlock do his work. He feels the cool pressure of the gel cushions that the doctors gave him to prevent his clothing from sticking to his exposed flesh, and then the fingers disappear from his back.

"Here, all done. Lestrade? Information?"

John leaves the room rather hastily, returning upstairs to find a new shirt to wear. From the living room he already hears the first bits of a discussion, interrupted occasionally by Mycroft's soft chuckle, when he reaches the door to his room. Too late, much too late he wonders why said door is closed- he is sure he left it open when he went downstairs earlier, he is absolutely sure, so why-

The soft whisper of feet behind him is almost inaudible, but the hairs on the base of his neck rise and all his senses are tingling when he whirls around, the shouted warning already on his lips-

**darkness.**


	13. Love

"Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...  
>You give them a piece of you.<br>They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like '_maybe we should be just friends_' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a **soul-hurt**, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love."

_[Neil Gaiman]_


	14. 7: Disappear

**A/N:** _Hello, everyone. I am so sorry for the long delay. I don't even know how to apologize. My life is just really messy right now. I'll try and update faster in the future, but I can't make any promises just yet. Please stick with me. Knowing that someone is reading this and possible reviews are making my world a better place. Even if I don't have time to reply personally to each of you, please know that I love you all._**  
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**Quote:** _And the truth is: We are all just a bunch of kids wanting to know what love is.  
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* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven_Disappear<br>**

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><p>"So? Will you have a look?"<p>

Gregory Lestrade is a good Detective Inspector, a well-liked colleague, a pleasant drinking pal, and yes: He is a proud man. None of this counts in the world of one Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Right now Greg's voice is adapting a pleading tone, and he hates himself a bit for it. But as he once said _(and how long ago has that been, almost half a year) _to John: He is desperate, that's why. And Sherlock Holmes is not only a great man anymore, but also finally on the way to become a good one. So the D.I. swallows his pride and pleads.

_(Almost six years ago, he found himself confronted with one of the greatest decisions of his life: Either he continues to live his life, do his job and eventually makes it to the very top of the carreer ladder. Or he involves a brilliant but terribly forlorn drug addict in his cases, risks his promotion, and in the end catches a serial killer. Since then he often questioned his own sanity, but not once has he questioned the __rightfulness of his decision.)_

Sherlock tugs at the strings of his violin and absent mindedly stares at the ceiling. _Pling. _"Hm?" His eyes, ice-blue in the light, slowly trail down the wallpapers until they find Lestrade's face and stay there. "Oh. Yes. The case." _Pling. _"Boring. But fine." _Pling, pling. _"You're lucky I am in desperate need of a distraction." _(And no, Lestrade does not miss the irony in those words.) _"Depends on whether or not John is available this weekend." _Pling._

Lestrade thinks of bruises and contusions, of skin in all shades of yellow, green and purple. He thinks of broken ribs and white-hot burn marks, and he thinks of a small dot of pink skin above John's left collarbone, not bigger than a fingerprint- the entrance wound of a bullet, so little and nondescript, blooming into some kind of exotic flower all over the man's shoulder blade. He thinks that John should be in bed with tea and a book and silence, and he hates himself a little bit more. But he knows that he needs Sherlock's help in this. And Sherlock, as weird as this may sound, _Sherlock needs John._

_Pling. Pling._

"I'll ask him." Knowing when he's beaten, he pushes away from the doorframe and turns towards the stairs. Sherlock nods absently, plugs at his violin and remains silent. Mycroft makes a face- it is no more than a tiny twitch of the mouth that obviously means something, but Lestrade can not read this man and has stopped trying a long time ago. With a small sigh he climbs up the stairs that lead to the second level of Baker Street 221.

He's never been up here, not even during the last fake drug's bust a few months ago. It is strange to know that someone actually lives here. Again it hits him how little he really knows about the _man _John Watson- yes, he is a doctor; he is Sherlock's flatmate; he used to be a soldier. Maybe he would know a whole lot if he only took the time to put the pieces together. One way or the other, _John is a good man, _and he is always willing to finish off the day with a beer in a nearby pub. He's someone people like to talk to. Even though he rarely ever talks about himself.

The staircase ends in a narrow corridor with bright wallpaper. Above him in the ceiling there is only a small trapdoor leading to the attic. The slants of the roof form both ends of the hallway. There is only one door, dark wood, bright frame. He knocks against the bleached wood of the setting as if the door itself were one step too far. "John?"

There is no answer and he feels a bit stupid standing here on the landing. From below he can hear voices growing louder- is Sherlock arguing with his brother?- and then, abruptly, the sawing of a pained violin. The sound makes him flinch. He knocks again. "John. It's me, Greg. Can I come in?"

The silence continues, only broken by the tortured howling of the instrumend from the living room. Slowly a different kind of uneasiness crawls down his spine. Again, he thinks of bruises and broken bones. _What if he collapsed? _But three times' the charm, so he knocks once more, against the door this time, hard and fast. No answer. "John, I'm coming in now."

His fingers find the door handle, and the door swings open inwards without a sound.

The room in front of him is small, but friendly, open and neat. Lestrade sees a light wooden floor stretching out, bordering on soft yellow walls and on the right ending in one of the slants. Below it there is a small single bed. It is carefully made, bedding neatly tucked in around the mattress, the pillow placed exactly in the middle of it; it looks like the bed in a hotel room. Behind it there is a simple drawer made of dark wood on which a few framed photos are facing the room. On the other side of the room he can see a second door, presumably leading into the bathroom; next to it a bookshelf is filled with a couple of worn paperbacks and what appears to be photo albums. On the lowest shelf a small dark wooden box is peeking his interest, but he tears his eyes from it for now. Below the softly swinging curtains that frame the window, a simple desk with a few drawers and an office chair round off the furniture.

The room seems sparse, almost untouched, and the sight makes Lestrade feel a strange melancholy. Little suggests that someone is actually living here, and that isn't right, is it, not after six months of inhabitation. It looks for all the world as if John is ready to leave again at any given moment.

It is also deserted. In other words: No John anywhere in sight.

Confused, Lestrade passes the treshhold and takes a closer look around. A towel is neatly folded over the foothold of the bed; it is still damp from the last shower. The inspector hesitates for another second before knocking on the door to what he presumes to be the bathroom. The thought crosses his mind that it would be really awkward to surprise John on the loo; but when he doesn't receive an answer, he opens this door as well. A small milky window breaks the light into rainbows on sterile white tiles, ceramic and a small corner shelf. There is nothing on it but some spare rolls of toilet paper, a toilet bag, hand soap and a mug with a rather worn toothbrush. In this room, too, he can see only the daily neccessities, neatly arranged, and there is no John.

He flinches like he's been caught doing wrong when the bedroom door slams shut behind him. It takes him some seconds to understand that the wind drew it shut, and for a moment he is ashamed of his jumpiness. But then other thoughts take over, stranger thoughts- _wind, from the open window, why is the window opened in this weather?_

A quick glance outside shows that the window faces out to a small paved backyard and not the street. Down below, Lestrade can see a small gable- presumably Sherlock's private rooms, going by the way the rooms downstairs are cut out- and even further down lies a small courtyard lined by high stone walls. A couple of bins are lined up against the back wall, next to a small iron gate with black paint peeling off it. Clouds are hanging thick and low above his head, heavy with rain, and a sharp wind ruffles the fallen leaves. Behind the gate, he can hear a car driving past in whatever alley lies there. No-one else is in sight.

Lestrade leaves the window open when he stumbles back down the stairs and into the living room. He enters a personified wild storm made of Sherlock who seems to try and remodel each and every _stack_ of books in the room into messy book _heaps_. In the middle of the chaos, Mycroft sits with an utterly bored expression and reads police reports. Lestrade stares in bewilderment for one second, two, then he decides that he can't deal with this crazed family right now. Instead he slowly back up until he's standing outside on the landing again, then turns and trots further downstairs to the first floor.

John's black winter jacket is still hanging at the wardrobe. Below it, his shoes are neatly lined up next to Sherlock's and Mycroft's. So obviously he is still in the house, Lestrade concludes. He is sucking his lower lip unconsciously in thought when a loud crash from upstairs makes him flinch. That settles it. He won't go back there if he can help it.

Mrs. Hudson opens after the first knock at her door, neatly dressed as always in a pink dress that is colour-coordinated with her jewelry. She seems little surprised to see him. "Inspector. How nice of you to look after me. What can I do for you?" Her eyes flicker towards the stairs for the friction of one second before they find back to his face. "Did something happen?"

Lestrade forcefully bites back the no that is already on his lips. He doesn't want to worry the elderly lady, but right now he can't rule out any possibility, however unlikely. "Mrs Hudson, I am sorry to disturb you, but have you seen John?"

She looks at him astonished. "Of course", she says and he is about to exhale the deep breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding, when she adds "not quite two hours ago. He brought me some groceries, the dear boy. I wanted to come up for tea later." She rethinks her words for a moment, one finger placed on her cheek. "Since then no one has entered the building, no one but you that is. And the dustcart. The nice boys always collect my bins from the backyard- my hip doesn't much like the cold weather, you know."

Lestrade nods, mind already elsewhere, and thanks her for her help before returning upstairs. Sherlock seems to have calmed down enough to confine himself to standing dramatically in front of the window; his long, thin shadow stretches out behind him and dips his brother's face in shadows. Mycroft doesn't seem bothered in his reading at all. _At least they stopped throwing books, _Lestrade thinks. Upon his entering both brothers turn and look at him, and for a moment the Inspector feels strangely naked under the joint forces of two pairs of searching, gray eyes. Then Mycroft turns his attention back to the newspaper on the couch table, and the depressing tension subsides a bit.

Until Sherlock finds what he is looking for, and his expression derails.

"Lestrade", he says, and his voice is _shaking, _pulled taut like a bow string. "Where is John?"

The Inspector spreads his arms in a helpless gesture. "He is not in his room, but his things are still here. You tell me. Is there some kind of secret passageway through the chimney that I don't know about?" His attempt at a joke drops like a stone in the following silence. Then Sherlock dashes past him, shoves him against the doorframe in his haste, and runs up the stairs. Lestrade looks after him, confused and more than a little worried. He almost misses the soft rustling of paper behind him, followed by an almost inaudible breath. _Ah._

When he turns again, Mycroft has already risen from the chair and placed the neatly folded paper back on the table. "Where-" he begins but doesn't get any further. "Well", the older Holmes interrupts him as easily as if he hadn't spoken at all. "My regards, but I have to take my leave now. It was nice seeing you again, Inspector." Without another glance he walks down the stairs, takes his jacket and his umbrella from the wardrobe, slips into his shoes and makes his way to the door. It falls shut behind him with a soft click.

Lestrade barely has time to wrap his head around this when a loud noise from upstairs demands his attention. Flinching he remembers the neat state of John's room paired with Sherlock's respectless attitude towards privacy, and he decides to cut the poor man's losses. He finds Sherlock hanging halfway out the window, balanced precariously on the edge of the wooden desk below and muttering to himself.

"...ripped off the moss right here and here... But it has to be at least five metres to the ground, how did they..."

Only slowly realization dawns when Lestrade starts to understand that John might not have left Baker street voluntarily; that ten minutes can indeed be more than enough to make someone disappear. And Sherlock's expression when he pulls himself back into the room by the window frame speaks volumes.

Mycroft closes the door of the apartment house behind him and deeply inhales the cold air of the early evening. Then he straightens his coat collar, twirls his umbrella and wanders down the street. He doesn't have to walk long. After a few meters a black car pulls to the curb next to him and the door on the passenger side opens.

"That's how it is", he whispers softly, half amused upon the brazen act, half disappointed by it. Aloud he asks the driver: "It is my choice then?"

A characterless face is turned in his direction, the eyes hidden beneath black-tinted glasses despite the overcast sky and the voice flat and featureless. "Well, you can stand there and guess, Mr. Holmes. Or you get into the car and find out the truth for yourself."

Mycroft laughs once, humourless and hard. "Truth. What is that supposed to mean?"

The man doesn't reply. He simply stares out of the windowshield, his expression giving away nothing. But when the door closes and the safety belt clicks into place, he allows himself a thin smile. And the car gets into the left-hand lane and disappears around the next street corner.

Mycroft folds his hands around the handle of his black umbrella and maintains his silence.


	15. Memory

_"You're bleeding."  
>"You too."<br>"Hm. Right. But the others were bleeding a whole lot more."  
>"They teased you, upset you. That's my job."<br>"Hey!"  
>"You know what I mean."<br>"Yeah, all right. ... My? Thank you."_

_"It looks alike. Do we have the same blood?"  
>"The same blood type, yes."<br>"Cool."  
>"You think?"<br>"Sure! You and me, we are alike!"_

_"You and me."  
>"You said that already."<br>"No, I mean you and me. Together. Always. Forget the others. You and me."  
>"Of course, little brother. Always."<em>


	16. 8: Fallen

**A/N:** _Took me a while to get this right. Sorry for the delay. By the way, you are all amazing. Your reviews save my days, people. Thank you so, so much. You have no idea what this means to me. I have one of you (anon, sadly enough) who told me that I write almost like a native speaker, and I almost cried. I'm a bit overemotional right now, but still...  
>By the way, I am still looking for a beta? If that even makes sense this far in a story? But at least someone who corrects my grammar and gets to read the new stuff a few days before the others do. :D<br>_

**Warnings:** _I have probably said it before somewhere, but I'll do it again. This is not a pretty story. There will be blood, and gore, and swearing, and there will be pain both emotional and physical. There will be twists and cruelty and numbness. And there will be torture. If any of these points make you squeamish, I suggest you exit here while you still can.__  
><em>

**Quote: **_I wonder how many hauntings go unreported because wailing and the clank of chains are still better than an empty house. (A Softer World)  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight_Fallen<br>**

* * *

><p><strong><em>"The number you have dialed is temporarily not in service. Beeeep. The number you've dialed..."<br>_**

Sherlock lets the Blackberry slip from his numb hand to the floor. It doesn't even surprise him anymore. He hasn't even got the energy left to get angry. His eyes slowly wander up and down the walls, proceeding from squiggle to squiggle on the wallpaper until they reach the white paint of the ceiling. He follows the spiderweb cracks in the plaster, noting how they change directions and break and stop without warning. Every fine line is as familiar to him as the lines of his own hands. His gaze blurs- again, but he can't even be snub about that anymore, he lacks the energy. He has denied his body too much for too long, and now he pays the price.

His head slips down the armrest, deeper into the cushions, as the tension bleeds out of his muscles. Darkness creeps in from all sides, slow and predatory and merciless, like threads of tar in stark contrast to the light coloring of the cloth below him. Like his own hair in the pale white light of the street lamps, he thinks, when it bleaches the colour out of everything and leaves behind a world of shadows. The liquid blackness paints symbols into the embroidery, letters, a word _JohnJohnJohnJohn _and he reads it again and again on his way into bittersweet uncounsciousness, like a silent prayer burned forever into the back of his eyelids.

_**"Mrs. Hudson! Isn't it time for your evening soothers? Downstairs? In your own flat?"**_

Martha Hudson lets the TV remote slip from her numb hand to the floor. The device falls silent, flickering light fading into electrically humming darkness. She is tired. She is tired _of it, _the waiting, the nothing-you-can-do, the having-to-watch. But she stays awake. _Just for another while. One hour, maybe. Two. _Tries to catch a noise from the flat above hers, any indication at all that there is still life in 221b. Strains to hear the soft creaking of floorboards, of steps under tired feet that never comes. She thought the noise, the screams, the breaking of china were the bad part of it all. Turns out she was wrong. It is this silence that really scares her, because it reminds her of _before._

It is _before John, _after only two days it is already _before John, _only it's really worse, darker, _colder _somehow. And John, and Sherlock- her boys, that she has grown to love like her own son, who she doesn't ever see anymore- John is _gone, _and somehow he took Sherlock with him and left but his body behind. She wanted to talk to him, but he sent her away, his voice like acid and his gaze like blades of ice. Now she thinks she should have put more effort into it. _But. _Is she even the right person for that? Isn't the whole thing her fault, for being so easily fooled by the uniforms of the dustcart? Sherlock has never been good at bearing his own company, no, _he's never been good at that. _She gets up and the soft soles of her slippers rustle on the wooden floor. Gets up and walks into her bedroom. She stays awake, only for a little while, one hour, two. And she prays.

**_"...a shame, but under the given circumstances we see no option but to..."_**

Greg lets the empty can slip from his numb hand to the floor. There is metallic rattling when it meets more of its kind, and he flinches tormentedly but otherwise he doesn't move. His eyes wander aimlessly over the faded wallpaper, over the little bumps and cuts and stripes and worn spots that are like annual rings, but he doesn't really see them. His thoughts are elsewhere, in a different room, on a different wallpaper. For a second he can almost smell cracked leather and wet ink, but the moment fades and leaves nothing but the sour sting of stale beer on the cheap polyester of the seat covers.

The piece of furniture is not big enough to comfortably hold his body. But that's fine with him. He doesn't feel like being comfortable. Doesn't feel like much of anything right now. The TV throws spots of restless light over the faded carpet and the chaos of his flat, races through soundless pictures of a life that will continue just the same without him. The opening of a new can is accompanied by a hiss, and with every movement of throat, every long swallow reality loses a bit more of its focus, slips from his grasp and makes room for cold blackness. He is almost thankful for the sharp stinging in his twisted legs as they protest against the cramped position. The pain is the last evidence that he is still here.

_**"No signal found. Please alter your search or try..."**_

The woman whose name is not Anthea lets the ballpoint pen slip from her numb hand to the floor. She is exhausted- more so, she is depleted. Her eyes wander across the flickering screen in front of her. She has consulted all sources known to her, used up all her ressources. The signal of the chip in Mycroft Holmes' shoes led them to a bottle bank in a residential area near the Thames. They are still in analysis, but so far without any result. The black umbrella, his trademark, is already back from the labs. Her eyes fall on the twisted metal and the ripped cloth in the umbrella stand, and a new wave of hopelessness threatens to take her down.

There should be a third chip, carefully embedded in the second molar on the left during the last dental appointment, and it is this one she concentrates her efforts on. But the signal is weak, flickering, and this far she can only narrow it down to _somewhere in the UK. _The evaluation of the little CCTV footage they have of the black car on Baker Street is ongoing, as is the biometric facial recognition of Jim Moriarty and seven of his highest-ranked subordinates that they believe to be alive and running. Nothing. And she sits here and doodles stick figures on her notepad, because she can't do anything but wait.

**_"It is not yours to ask these questions. You should rather see to it that..."_**

Sally lets her handbag slip from her numb hand to the floor. She should leave, really, she should- it's almost ten p.m., the other office rooms at NSY are deserted. But she can't quite bring herself to get up. Not yet. She has often worked overtime before, spent endless nights in this chair at this desk. Why should today be any different? She shies away from the question, because she knows the answer. All of her extra hours were the result of her chief's doggedness. Lestrade's doggedness that has kept him awake over old files and fresh black ink; that and the strong coffee that to get has always been her task to fulfill. She would go to the little café at the street corner, the one that is opened 24/7, and sometimes she would bring donuts or biscuits...

Almost against her will she leans back until she can see the office upside-down. _His _office. She is almost expecting to see the dim shine of the computer screen through the frosted glass, to hear the creaking of the leather sofa when he rests his legs for a moment, or the rustling of files when he works his way through the ever-growing stakes of paperwork. But all she sees is her own reflection in the glass, a dark face with tired eyes and hard lines around her mouth. _It's not fair, _she thinks, but is it ever? What use is all the hard work, what use are hundreds of murderers and thieves caught and arrested, when in the end it's the same so-called justice that brings you down to your own knees? Her fingers fish for the handle of her bag again, but she doesn't get up just yet. For a few stolen minutes she closes her eyes and thinks of better times.

_**"My patience is wearing thin, Mr. Holmes. The offer..."**_

Mycroft lets the plastic bottle slip from his numb hand to the floor. It rolls down the slightly angled stone to the furrow in the middle of the room and paints a dark wet line of fine droplets on the porous material. He doesn't have the leisure to take a closer look; can't bring himself to care. His eyes are closed, but his lashes flutter in tune with his racing thoughts. Measuring, reading, understanding, filing away data. Every bit of information he has gained so far is pulled out and examined separately, with a focus as bright as any microscope. His body is tired, but his mind is sharper than ever before, and the brain surpasses the body. His pain fades beneath the psychological onslaught, fades to nothing but unimportant background noise.

Exactly two days, seven hours, thirty-four minutes and _nine, ten, eleven _seconds ago he got into the black car on Baker Street. A part of his brain knows the exact time, always, continually counting for as long as he remembers, and while he has trained himself to look at his pocket watch every once in a while, he never really needed a device to know. It comes in handy in times like these. Really useful. And frustrating. The room holds nothing but the bed, nothing but white walls and gray stone. _Fourty-two, fourty-three. _He can effortlessly spend days on end without any sleep at all, weeks if pushed, but before his abduction there were the votes in Papua to think about, and he has exhausted his limits. _Sixty. One. Two. _In one hour they will push a tray through a gap in the door, supplying him with fresh water and food, and then the evening begins. Then he will be able to sleep in peace. _Fifteen, sixteen. _Up until then he collects data and plans his revenge.

_**"But let's not talk about me, Johnny-Boy. Let's talk about Dylan Moor..."**_

John lets the gun slip from his numb hand to the floor. With a high-pitched ring metal hits stone, and it sounds like shrill mockery, like scorn. _I'm here, pick me up, use me. _He backs away, one step, two, then his back hits the wall. Raw, infected skin protests with burning vehemence against the rough handling, but he doesn't have the energy left to change his position. Exhaustion pulls him down, and he gives in to it, drained by hours and hours of resistance, of hunger and thirst and fear.

His eyes trail the dirty white tiles on the walls, the red rust and the desert sand that got stuck in the gaps. And the words. They are everywhere, the words. The names. Precise lines _Carlo Santes _in black marker _Lo__uis Matthew, _clear and clean and straight _Miles Norrington, _and he can't _n__ot _see them. There is no room for his eyes to rest on that is without words. _Renata Orland. _They stand still and demanding and accusing, on the ceiling _Fred Ians, _on the floor _J__ames Scott, _on his skin. His arms, his legs, his chest, memorials and brands and self-hatred. He closes his eyes, squints them shut until it hurts. Then he lays down, stretched out long on his right side- his ribs and arm and burned back leave little room for a more comfortable position. _Dylan Moor. _He waits for sleep to find him. Waits and tries to forget that inches from his face, a bullet is waiting.


	17. Confused

_I've known him for five years, but not really, no. You've met him. How many friends do you think he has? We all hated him for it. Wait- did he follow you home? Hello, sexy. He had this trick. This running battle between us is simply childish. Has it never occurred to you that maybe we belong to the same side? Just so I know, do you care about these people at all? That was brilliant. Extraordinary. So you don't have a girlfriend then. I stopped him. Come with me. Just so I know if I could have beaten you. A head in the fridge. I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone, because no-one else has such a massive intellect. Do you know what happens if you don't? With you? Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean, of course I'm gonna kill you some day. I can stop John Watson too, stop his heart. I'm disappointed in you. That wasn't kind. I wondered if you'd like to have coffee? Thanks to him I didn't go to prison! And I stabbed her, again and again and again. So it's a code, and every pair of numbers is a word. Moriarty.  
>Please<br>God  
>let<br>me  
>live.<em>


End file.
